


a hard way to live

by Kasuchi



Series: 'til the end of the line [2]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Jossed, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 11:43:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2347295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kasuchi/pseuds/Kasuchi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"Did they tell you guys what happened when I was undercover?"</em> Amy watches Jake recover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a hard way to live

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't read [a good way not to die](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2321684) yet, you probably should. You can read this without that, but Jake's actions will make more sense after that one. Or, at least, you-the-reader will have more context for his thought processes. 
> 
> A thousand thank-yous to **40millionyears** and **diaphenia** for their help, cheerleading, and beta work. You are both the best.

**i.**

There weren't any toys. 

Amy hadn't thought she would miss the creeping mass that was Jake's collection of toys and knick-knacks that always seemed to end up on her desk by the end of the week -- even though Jake had two desks and she only had one! -- but watching her partner, she wished she had a Rubik's cube or something for him. He wavered between too still and too fidgety, both extremes of how he used to be.

"Do you really think Jake is okay?" Teddy had asked, stirring the pasta sauce in perfect, steady rhythm. Amy leaned against the counter, sipping on a glass of Malbec. "I didn't know him as well as you guys, but wasn't he more..." Teddy seemed at a loss for the right adjective. The stirring paused.

"Yeah," Amy agreed. "He used to be more." She was quiet for a long moment, tilting her glass and watching the light in the depths of the red wine. "I guess something bad went down."

* * *

The Sarge tagged along with Amy and Jake to a crime scene. Amy could tell Charles was waiting for Jake to make a joke about fantasy threesomes. Hell, Amy probably would have allowed it for once. 

Jake simply asked if he should handle drawing the sketch of the scene for the files. 

It should have been simple: single gunshot wound to the chest from point blank range. The weapon had been recovered beside the body, and the perpetrator had been apprehended whilst bragging to his friends within earshot of a beat cop. It was as open-and-shut as they came. 

Jake had brought up the rear, his unease apparent even to some of the uniforms. Jake was certified to be back in the field a few weeks after he returned. It was hard to tell if he was relieved or excited; the captain had assigned him data analysis work in the interim, and Jake had traced back significant sums of money to their launderers. Still, Amy thought as she climbed out of the unmarked car, Jake was wasted behind the desk. 

Sarge slammed the driver's door shut and locked the car. Jake, already outside, shrugged on his jacket. Amy was certain he'd worn the same one every day, even though she knew he owned at least three. His back was straight and the cut on his cheek was healed, the scar barely visible. His hair was still too long, curling into ringlets at his nape and over his ears. 

"What do we got?" Sarge asked one of the uniforms, pulling out a notepad from -- actually Amy wasn't sure where Sarge had pulled it from. He clicked a pen and started taking notes on what the uniform was saying.

"White male, early thirties, single gunshot wound to the head from point blank range," the uniform recited. Amy half-listened, taking a long look at the crime scene. The body was covered in a blue tarp to protect it from the slight drizzle of the gray day, but there were yellow markers scattered out around the body denoting evidence that had been collected. 

"Has the M.E. come by yet?"

"On her way," the uniform replied. 

"Anyone touch the body?"

"No, sir," he replied. Amy saw that his badge read SULLIVAN, and his eyes were a dark blue that was startling in his face. He was 24 on the outside, Amy noted, and was clearly smarter than the average beat cop. "I made sure of that myself, had my partner create a perimeter while I radioed it in."

Jake was observing the crime scene, gaze drifting to the crowd from time to time. His silence unnerved her, and Amy resisted the urge to fill it with her own blathering. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he surveyed the scene, ignoring the mass under the blue tarp in lieu of trying to piece together the rest of the story. 

Sarge closed his notebook and slipped it into his shirt's front pocket (so that was where it was) and tugged up his slacks, dropping smoothly into a crouch by the victim. "Let's take a look," he said, and pulled back the tarp.

The body was facedown on the pavement, head turned to the side, the expression frozen in shock as the body settled into rigor. The dark, slightly scorched circle on the victim's forehead gave way to a blown away back of his skull, the gray matter spattered across the concrete. Amy felt herself slide into the deliberately-removed state she always went into when a murder was particularly gory.

"Do we know if it's gang-related?" Sarge asked.

The uniform shook his head. "This hasn't been listed as gang territory. If it is, it's new. You'll have to ask the gang squad." 

She heard someone clear their throat, and Amy looked over at Jake. He was pale, all the color having drained from his face, and his breathing was labored, eyes staring unseeing at the body. After a moment, Amy realized Jake was shaking, a fine tremor that ran from his shoulders to his knees. "Sarge--" she said sharply, and Terry was on his feet and in front of Jake in a flash, hands on Jake's shoulders. 

"Peralta -- _Jake_ ," he said, voice firm but moderated. "I need you to breathe for me, okay? You can do that. C'mon. In-two-three-four, out-two-three-four." Jake's hands flexed, reaching up to touch Sarge's forearms, but he took a labored breath and let it out slowly. 

Amy turned away and gestured for the uniforms to give the Sarge and Jake some space. "He just got back from undercover," she said shortly, when one beat cop neglected to hide his puzzled expression fast enough.

"That's _Jake Peralta_?" The guy asked, reverent. Amy barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. 

"Yes, and he's having a panic attack, so maybe keep it together," she said, more sharply than intended. Her own hands were shaking, and there was a feeling like her skin was too tight on her body, a buzzing that she felt in her fingers.

Jake was regaining color and breathing normally, if perhaps a bit overloud. Sarge led him to a bench several feet away, turning him away from the body and kneeling in front of Jake, continuing to help him calm down and recover. Amy watched them for a long moment, then turned back and resumed looking over the body, that sense of detachment slipping into place.

* * *

"After the earlier," Captain Holt paused. " _Incident_ , I think it may be best if you remain partnered with Detective Boyle." 

Amy felt a strange combination of protest and resignation. "Sir, all due respect, but _Peralta_ is my partner, not Boyle." 

Holt looked at her for a long moment, and Amy felt herself on the edge of fidgeting under his scrutiny. "Yes," he said slowly, folding his hands on his desk. "But your numbers aren't down and your work is as impeccable as ever."

Amy felt herself pink slightly. "Thank you, sir, but." She paused, considering her words. "Peralta brings out the best in me," she said at last. 

"And I'd argue you bring out the best in him," Holt finished. Amy was stunned by that and almost missed what came after: "But I do not think Peralta has his 'best' to give right now. Sergeant Jeffords will be partnered with Peralta for the time being, and you will continue working with Detective Boyle." Holt raised an eyebrow slightly. "I trust you understand why I am not pairing you with Detective Wells?" 

"Yes, sir," she said. Teddy had transferred to the Nine-Nine over the summer, taking Jake's spot, but had been kept in the dark until Jake had come back. He had been assigned the desk across from Rosa, and Sarge had been careful not to pair Amy with him. 

When Holt dismissed her, she walked out and fell into her chair, hands poised on her keyboard but looking at Jake's empty desktop instead for a long moment. Jake tilted his head at her when he caught her gaze, and she shook herself, mentally and physically. Turning back to her monitor, she began preparing her statements for trial. 

**ii.**

It wasn't until the shadows under his eyes were terrifically pronounced that she realized he wasn't sleeping. She immediately wanted to kick herself; what kind of detective can't see _that_? 

"It's not your job to notice everything about Jake," Teddy had said, voice soothing and gentle and kind, just as he always was. Amy, however, was riled up and pacing back and forth in front of the television. 

"Yeah, but he's still my partner, you know?" She ran a hand through her hair, frustrated, and flopped onto the couch, blowing out a long breath. "It's just really weird seeing him like this," she added, voice quieter. 

Teddy stretched out his arm and curled it around her waist, pulling her into him. Amy could hear his heart beating, the low steadiness of it comforting in the silence. "He's going to be okay," Teddy said, his tone matching hers. "He's got the Sarge and all of us to help him." 

"I wish I could do more," she said quietly, after they'd been still a long moment. 

"Amy, I know that if there was more you could do, you would," Teddy assured her, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head.

* * *

On the fifth straight shift he had shown up with a wrinkled shirt and his still-too-long hair in disarray, the shadows under his eyes pronounced, Amy had come prepared. From a spot on her desk that Jake couldn't quite see, she pulled out the biggest cup of coffee she had ever bought from her favorite cafe and set it in front of him, the cardboard sleeve falling down onto the desk. Jake had one of his three Rubik's cubes back, as well as a couple of his colorful pens, but the other toys were still absent. 

"Here," she said, without preamble, sitting in the chair beside his desk, one leg crossed over the other. 

He blinked owlishly at her, the lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth etched deep. It struck her then that he looked like he'd aged five years even though he'd only been gone six months. "You....got me one of your fancy coffees?" 

Faking a put-upon sigh, she rotated the cup, the brown sleeve rattling, until he could see the mess of writing on the side. "Black-eye, one pump hazelnut, one pump chocolate, whole milk, no foam," she read, pointing to each box as she went down the list. She adjusted the sleeve so that the order was once more covered and inched it closer to him. "You look like a character from _The Nightmare Before Christmas_. Drink it." 

Slowly, as if unaccustomed, his face morphed into the first real smile she'd seen from him in weeks. It felt like a punch to the gut. He reached for the coffee, hands wrapping around it. "I'd make an awesome Jack Skellington, though," he said, a teasing note in his voice. 

"You know I hate Halloween," she replied tartly, watching him as he pulled the stopper from the lid and took a sip. 

"It tastes like Nutella," he marveled, staring in awe at the cup. "I didn't know coffee could do that."

"Welcome to civilization." She ignored the way it felt like her heart was going to pound out of her chest. Instead, she folded her hands on her knee.

He closed his eyes and breathed in the coffee, the most content she'd seen him in what felt like weeks. She stood and went back to her seat, avoiding the gazes of the others. 

Her phone buzzed, a text message from Gina. Pulling it up, it was a short message -- a coffee cup emoji and an 'OK' hand gesture, thumb and forefinger making an O. She turned around to look at Gina directly, who simply raised an eyebrow slightly and then dipped her chin the smallest fraction.

* * *

Jake slipped out for two hours right around lunch every Monday and Thursday. He often came back pale and shaky, but his eyes were brighter and he had started joking again. The typewriter and a police car had made their way back to his desk. 

Sitting in the break room, Amy observed Jake slip his bag over his head and head down the stairs, hands firmly in pockets. Suddenly, it struck her how powerless she felt to help her partner.

She didn't realize she had voiced her thoughts until Sarge remarked, "All you can do is be supportive. Be there for him when he needs it." 

"I'm not…" She trailed off, setting her sandwich down and wiping her hands on a napkin. "I'm not good at knowing when that is." 

"He's your partner, right?" 

She nodded.

"Then you'll know." 

She shook her head. "Maybe, but Peralta was always better at that stuff." 

"Trust me," Terry said, pulling off the lid of his yogurt cup. "You'll know when he needs you."

* * *

The team was at Shaw's, celebrating Boyle's case going to trial and the D.A. getting a conviction. Captain Holt had insisted, saying that good police work deserved to be celebrated. 

It was a case that Jake hadn't been present for, and he lingered on the edge of the group while Boyle talked through how he'd pieced the evidence together. Amy had been the secondary on the case, and she had to admit it was really solid work. Gina was smirking at Boyle over her cocktail glass, and Amy had zero desire to find out more about that. 

Amy found herself chatting with Detective Cook for a while, comparing notes on a couple of auto cases they'd both been assigned. She finished off her drink and excused herself, feeling buzzed and wanting some air. She ran her hand across Teddy's back as she passed him, and he shot her a quick smile and an appreciative glance before turning his attention back to Boyle and Rosa and that patrol cop Rosa had taken under her wing over the summer. 

Outside, Amy rolled her shoulders and walked around the corner to where the smokers usually congregated, hoping to bum a light. She was not expecting to see Peralta half in shadow, the glowing tip of the cigarette hanging from his mouth. One leg was bent, foot against the brick wall, while the other leg was straight and braced against the ground. His head was tipped back slightly. He pulled the cigarette away from his mouth and exhaled slowly, eyes closed. 

"Peralta?" 

He started, nearly tripping as he pushed off the wall. "Christ, you scared me," he said, pressing a hand against his chest.

She shot him a look. "Since when do you smoke?" 

He looked at the cigarette, idly tapping the ash away. "Since about five months ago? Almost six, I guess." He shrugged, moving back to lean against the brick. "I picked it up undercover and I've been trying to quit since I got back." He held up the cigarette, half gone already. "Last cigarette ever," he added, voice full of false cheer. 

She took it out of his hand and took a long drag. "More like, last half-cigarette ever." She tilted her head and gave him a wry look. "Don't you know these things will kill you?" He laughed at that, but the sound was off somehow. Reaching out, he took it back, taking a shorter drag than she had. She noticed the way his mouth fit around the filter, the way her lipstick marks touched his lips. 

He passed it back to her, snapping her out of her reverie. "Finish it off, I think I'm done." 

"Forever?" 

He paused and half-turned back to her. "Probably," he said, shrugging, expression largely shadowed. He turned the corner and she heard the door to the bar open and close. 

She took a final drag, bringing the ash to the filter, and then stubbed it out under her foot. She blew out a long, thin stream of smoke, the haze of it lingering in the air for a long moment before dissipating.

* * *

At 2:37AM, Amy heard her phone chime. Pulling herself out from under Teddy's arm, she padded groggily to her desk, tapping at the screen of her phone until the message came up. 

_You awake?_

Alertness slammed into Amy, and she ran fingers through her hair. 

_Yeah. You okay?_

She leaned against her desk, idly turning the phone over in her hands. It buzzed and she nearly dropped it.

_Not really._

Ten minutes later, she was dressed and tying her hair back when she heard Teddy stir. She moved to the bed, one knee on the mattress and one hand on Teddy's chest. "Hey," she said quietly. "I got a call." 

He blinked sleepily, then took her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. "Okay. Good luck." He smiled, hair mussed and gray singlet bunching over his muscles. 

Her hand tingled all the way to Jake's apartment, up until she knocked on his door, a soft rap that was deliberately not her police knock. 

He opened the door, wearing a navy tee and basketball shorts. She saw him look startled, and he took in her oversized hoodie and leggings. "What are you--?" 

She pushed past him and reached into her bag, crouching down in front of his DVD player. "Shut up, we're watching _The Fifth Element_." 

He closed the door behind him slowly, turning the deadbolt. "You know it's like three in the morning, right?" 

She shrugged. "I'm already here, aren't I?" 

Jake passed out an hour and a half later, following twenty minutes of running commentary before he finally got into the movie, and Amy went back to her place around five. She crawled under her covers and pressed into Teddy's chest. He stirred and pulled her close, and she listened to her boyfriend's steady breathing until she fell asleep.

* * *

Teddy went to visit his parents upstate, leaving Amy with a free weekend to herself. Kylie was traveling for work, her parents were on a cruise, and she had already tidied her apartment. There was an open bottle of wine and a month's worth of _Scandal_ on her DVR, and both were calling her name. 

When the knock came on her door, Amy sighed and pulled her fuzzy polyester robe tighter around her, her flannel pajama bottoms dragging on the floor as she padded to the door. "What is it, Mrs. Landing--?" 

It was Jake on the other side, holding a white bag with THANK YOU written on it in four languages. He was still in his outfit from work, the top buttons undone and tie flat around his neck, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He stared at her for a second before swallowing. Amy watched his Adam's apple bob in his throat. "Hey," he said, and smiled, wide and genuine. That, more than anything else, threw her off.

She touched her glasses, an old nervous gesture that she'd never managed to shake. "Hi," she replied. 

In the face of her silence, he cleared his throat. "I brought dinner. Dim sum from the place--"

"Two blocks away?" Amy finished, finding her voice. "Perfect. I just worked out, too. You can watch Scandal with me." She stepped back and let him in. 

"Give me a beer and we could watch _My Little Pony_ ," he retorted, tone more acerbic than he probably intended. He toed off his shoes by the entry.

"My little niece really likes that show," she commented mildly, rummaging in her cupboards for plates. 

Jake set the bag on her dining table and began unpacking its contents. "So, you're a Scandal fan. Can't say I'm surprised. Who's your favorite?" 

"Predictably, I have a soft spot for Josh Malina." She handed him a large square plate and opened the closest carton. "Are these pan-fried dumplings?" 

"Yeah. There should be pork buns and a side of fried rice somewhere, too." 

He ended up staying past midnight, because he insisted they start from the beginning after Amy's batch of episodes was done. He snarked the entire time but then demanded she play the next one until they were halfway through the first season.

* * *

Jake teased Charles about his bicycle basket and baguette fixation, idly toying with his Hoberman sphere. Charles was nearly vibrating with joy, his excitement palpable. Jake's desk was still under-cluttered compared to eight months ago, but the three toy police cars had found their way back to this desk. The smallest of the three had rolled over onto her desk and she had hidden her reaction with a hand over her mouth.

* * *

Amy leaned on Jake's buzzer and shifted her weight. Her boots pinched and her sweater itched and the winter promised to be another long, bitter one. The buzzer sounded loud and harsh at 11:30 at night, and she slipped through both outer doors into the hallway, feet making the trip on autopilot. 

Someone was baking, and the smell of cinnamon was incredible. She focused on that instead, putting one foot in front of the other up the stairs until she was in front of Jake's door. The baking smell was stronger now, and she guessed one of his neighbors was making cinnamon rolls. She reached down and unzipped her boots, toeing them off and leaving them to dry in the hallway before knocking.

When he opened the door, Amy was buffeted by a rush of hot air and the smell of fresh baked goods. "I forgot you were coming over," he said lamely by way of greeting. 

She tilted and saw that every surface in his tiny kitchen was covered in muffins, the sink overflowing with dirty dishes. There were eggshells and cartons between trays. "Did you stress bake four dozen muffins?"

"Two dozen muffins, two dozen cupcakes." He paused and ran his forearm across his forehead. "And there's two loaves of banana bread in the oven." 

"How the hell can you bake?" She walked in and set the bag on the ground by the dining table, pulling off her coat, scarf, and mittens, and tossing them on his couch. "You think orange soda and cereal go to together." 

Jake shrugged, dark green t-shirt streaked with flour across his chest, like he'd wiped a floury hand there without thinking, and he rocked onto the heels of his feet. "My grandmother made me help her. I learned some stuff." 

Amy was suddenly confronted with the mental image of a curly-haired ten-year-old version of Jake stirring a mixing bowl while his grandmother watched, showing him how to fold eggs into a mix and how to grease a baking sheet. 

In front of her, adult Jake fidgeted under her scrutiny. "It's a coping mechanism," he blurted out. "It makes me feel like I'm in control," he added, mumbling.

She gave herself a mental shake and pushed up the sleeves of her itchy sweater. "Let me borrow a t-shirt and I'll help you clean."

"Oh, thank god."

* * *

They were watching a Nets game on TV when Amy blurted it out. "You know Charles and Gina are seeing each other, right?" 

Jake shot her a look, taking a long pull of his beer. "Yeah," he said slowly. "They've both asked me for advice about each other." 

"Ugh, no one ever tells me anything." 

"You're a _detective_ ," he pointed out, gesturing with the bottle. "Detect." 

She rolled her eyes. "How about I interrogate instead?" 

He shrugged loosely, a little buzzed. "Do whatever you want." 

"How come _you_ never dated Gina?" 

He wrinkled his nose. "She's great, but...ew? She's like a sister to me. I couldn't do that." 

"It _never_ occurred to you?" She shot him a skeptical look.

"Fine, so maybe we tried kissing when we were like fourteen and it was really boring." 

She laughed. "How was it boring? You were fourteen, a strong breeze was _interesting_ at that age." 

He rolled his eyes. "You're so gross." He pushed her shoulder, and she kept laughing. "Also, not wrong. But Gina has always just been Gina to me." He shrugged again. "What, were you expecting I'd hear that question, suddenly realize I loved her, and go run across town? She lives fifteen minutes from here and she's probably on a date with Amar'e Stoudemire just to make Boyle jealous." 

"How did I hear the apostrophe in Amar'e just then?"

"It's a gift," He finished off the beer and set it on his coffee table as the buzzer sounded. "This game is a wreck."

"Why are we even watching it?" She tipped back her own beer bottle and sat back on his couch, feet stretch out in front of her. They'd finished off the six pack together, and she was starting to feel pleasantly warm all over. 

"'Cause it's the Nets, duh." He ran a hand through his hair. It was still too long, but the curls were starting to grow on her. She found them endearing. "How are you here?" he asked, not looking at her. 

She turned her head towards him, body slumped into the sofa. "I walked?" 

"No, I mean," he turned his head towards hers, and Amy realized how close they were, shoulders just about touching. "Last I checked you had a boyfriend. Shouldn't you be with him? Tonight, and the three other nights a week you spend with me?" 

She turned and stared at the ceiling, closing her eyes and blowing out a long breath. She had been coming over three or four times a week since he'd texted that night. Teddy grew increasingly doubtful of her pithy excuses, she could tell, but telling him about Jake felt wrong somehow. That in and of itself was probably a sign. On screen, the crowd cheered and the color commentators were talking a mile a minute.

She felt his hand cover the one she had braced on the sofa. "Hey, I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I was out of line, I shouldn't have said anything." She turned back to him, and his expression was earnest, open and honest.

She turned her hand over and squeezed his, pasting a smile on her face. "It's okay." She pulled away and stood. "But, I'm gonna go," she added gently.

He watched her for a long moment. "Yeah," he said. "Okay. I'll tell you how it ended tomorrow." 

"Don't bother," she joked, shrugging on her coat. "Nets lose, Celtics win, blah blah blah." 

"Haters aren't welcome here," he admonished, but he was grinning, pushing to his feet. "Get home safe, okay?"

She rolled her eyes at that. "I'm a cop." But she smiled, smaller and more genuine, and waved as she walked out of his apartment, expression falling as soon as she heard the lock turn in his door.

In the cab back to her place, she let the cacophony wash over her, the guilt sinking into her bones. When they stopped in front of her brownstone, she paid and let herself in. She took the stairs up with heavy, plodding steps, her boots thumping on each landing, until she reached her door. She entered her apartment quietly, tossing her coat and scarf and purse onto her couch and shedding her clothes in the bath, tossing everything into her hamper. She washed up as quietly as possible, splashing cold water on her face and looking at herself in the mirror, eyes large and dark, bra and panties color-coordinated and flattering. 

She snuck into her bedroom and climbed into bed, running her hands up Teddy's chest, fingers slipping under the singlet he usually slept in. He mumbled in his sleep and responded without thinking, large hands coming up to rest on her hips. She pressed her mouth to his nipple, tonguing it through the cotton, and he groaned, arms wrapping around her back. 

"Amy?" he mumbled, stirring to wakefulness. 

"Hi," she said softly, pressing her mouth to his neck and licking a stripe nearly to his ear. She felt him shudder and groan under her, and she didn't try to suppress the satisfaction in her smile. She heard the sounds Teddy made as he pulled off her bra, and she focused on the way he felt, solid and hot above and inside her. 

After, Teddy's arm around her waist and face pressed between her shoulder blades, she fell asleep dreaming of laced fingers and warning bells.

* * *

She kept going to Jake's place after work.

* * *

As she came to consciousness, she heard the steady beat of a heart and felt the gentle rise and fall of a decidedly male chest under her. He sighed, a deep and slow sound that hummed through her, and she felt his arm around her shoulders tighten slightly. She enjoyed the feeling of being curled up with a man.

She took a deep breath and her hazy mind realized that this wasn't her home, that Teddy's soap smelled different. Opening her eyes slowly, she saw the DVD player logo bouncing around the screen, the far window letting in gray light. 

This wasn't her apartment. 

_Oh, shit_ , she thought. Jake's heartbeat was still steady, breathing still even, and she sat up and looked at his face, careful to not wake him. In sleep, he looked young, the lines smoothed out and that wide mouth of his slightly parted.

She wanted to kiss him.

She didn’t. 

Instead, she stood, running a hand through her hair, and tugged at her wrinkled clothes. She turned off the television, took out the DVD of _Fargo_ that she'd brought over, and tiptoed out of his apartment, shoes in hand and making sure the door latched quietly behind her. She pulled on her boots on the landing and briskly walked back to her place, the dawn light brightening with each passing moment. While waiting for a light to change, she scrubbed her face with a hand.

She let herself into her place as quietly as she could, pulling off her boots and hanging her keys near-silently. Padding to her kitchen, she set the water to boil and started making coffee, the motions of filling her French press keeping her mind and hands occupied. She filled and sipped a glass of water, leaning against her kitchen counter, as she heard Teddy wake, his alarm going off and the sink running. She stared at her toes, wiggling them so they peeked out from under the hem of her slacks.

Yesterday's slacks. She set down the water glass and let out a long breath. 

The water was coming to a boil when she heard his footsteps thumping softly towards her. She looked up from her feet as he appeared in the doorway of her kitchen, looking adorably rumpled and smelling like mint and her soap. She felt her heart lurch, and she smiled, pulling the water off the heat and turning off the stove. "Morning," she said, voice low, and set the French press to brewing, pouring out the excess water in the sink. 

"I didn't hear you come in last night," he said, watching her face carefully. Amy sometimes forgot how good of a detective Teddy was; it was a classic leading question.

"I fell asleep on the couch," she said, smiling, capping the French press and pushing it away from the edge of the butcher block countertop. The half-truth tasted metallic in her mouth. She turned and leaned against the counter, facing Teddy. He took a few steps toward her, ran a finger from her shoulder to her elbow. She shivered. "In my work clothes," she added lamely, tugging on the hem of her untucked blouse. 

He stepped forward until he was in her space, one leg between hers, and kissed her, hands going around her waist and lifting her up onto the counter. He tasted like mint and water, and his mouth was warm and pliant above hers. She ran her hands up his chest, over his shoulders, fingers tufting his hair. Her legs opened, and he stepped between them, pressing their bodies closer together, hands running up her thighs. 

"I've missed you," he said, nipping at the shell of her ear. "You've been so busy lately, I feel like I hardly see you anymore." 

"i've missed you, too," she replied, pressing her brow into his shoulder and pulling him into her.

* * *

She made it a point to leave Jake's place before two in the morning, after that. Jake never said anything, his dark gaze watching her as she gathered her things, expression unreadable as she waved goodbye and took the stairs down, knowing she’d see him in a handful of hours. 

_If I were smarter_ , she thought, waiting for the light to turn, _I would stop going over there at all._

She crossed the street and, when she got up the short run of stairs, looked at the buzzer for a long moment. Reaching out, she pressed it and waited for the doors to unlock.

* * *

"Are you cheating on me?" 

Amy stopped still, letting go of Teddy's hand. "What?" 

He took a few steps and turned to her, the hand she'd been holding flexing instinctively. "Are you cheating on me, Amy?" He looked so earnest, like a kicked puppy, and Amy wanted to throw herself over the railing into the East River. Around them, other couples and groups continued strolling along the Brooklyn Promenade. 

She had forgotten he was a really good detective. "I--"

"Because you're gone four nights a week, and none of your co-workers have mentioned getting the same calls you have been." He swallowed. "Charles said he was at an eleven-course kelp tasting the night you got called in at 10:30 about a case." 

That had been the night she'd woken up at dawn on Jake's couch. "I'm not cheating on you," she said honestly, trying to keep the shakiness out of her voice. 

"Then where have you been going? I deserve that much, Amy." 

She shook her head. "I can't tell you."

Teddy frowned. In the streetlights, it looked a mile long. "So, you're not cheating on me but you can't tell me where you've been?" 

"Well, when you put it like that," she said, trying for a wry joke. It fell flat, the words drifting until they crashed into the dingy water. "Yeah," she added tonelessly. "I guess that's where we are." 

He sighed and rubbed the back of his head. "I can't do this anymore, Amy," he said. "I'm sorry, but I just...don't trust you." He scuffed his shoe against the hexagonal tile, half-turning away from her. "I mean, you can't be honest _now_ , when it counts?" 

She reached out and he took a step back, shaking his head. "Okay," she said, and withdrew. "I'm sorry, too. It's just not my place to tell."

They were silent for a long, tense moment.

"This is it, huh." Teddy laughed humorlessly. "You know, I didn't think we'd end this way?" 

She smiled back at him, eyes glassy. "I didn't think we'd end at all," she replied, but that was a lie she'd been telling herself a long time. 

Teddy let out a long breath. "I'm gonna put in for a transfer," he said slowly. "The Eight-Two's been asking me to come back, and you guys have Peralta back now, so..."

"I know." 

He stepped forward and pulled her into a long hug, then pulled back. They kissed, chaste, Teddy's hands on her cheeks, ring and middle fingers just barely in her hair. Then, he was gone, headed north toward the train. 

Amy watched him walk away until she couldn't hear his footsteps anymore. She leaned against the railing and stared out across the water for a long time. 

**iii.**

Amy hated everyone knowing she and Teddy had broken up. 

Teddy had left three days ago, his last day with the Nine-Nine having been Tuesday for a myriad number of reasons. He'd been pleasant enough, but the hug he'd given her had been stiff and a little awkward, and when they'd pulled apart she had seen Charles sending her a speculative look. Not for the first time, she regretted that she worked with detectives.

It had been fifteen days since the Promenade, twelve days since Teddy had taken all of his things out of her place. Ten days since he'd given her back her spare set of keys. Eight since the rest of the precinct found out he was transferring back. Amy had been fighting a headache and dodging uncomfortable questions the entire time. 

She'd gone to Jake's after work like she usually did, but they sat on opposite sides of the sofa, the silences tense with all the conversations they weren't having. She had fallen asleep curled up and hugging one of the couch pillows, and Jake had shaken her awake around midnight. When she had come to, his face had been too close, his entire presence suddenly overwhelming, and it had taken every ounce of her control to stop herself from doing something foolish. 

Amy had never been more grateful for a message from Kylie. The text read, _Let's go dancing_. Amy knew what a direct order looked like, and she hadn't bothered protesting. She'd headed over to Kylie's place after work, borrowed a dress and shoes from her friend, and sipped -- okay, more like mainlined -- wine while Kylie did her makeup. 

"You sure you don't want me to do yours?" Amy swirled her glass in one hand, watching Kylie.

Kylie had shot her a sardonic look in the mirror, pausing as she tidied her eyeliner. "If it isn't mascara, you end up making me look like a five-year-old raiding her mother's stuff." 

Amy laughed. "What, that isn't the 'in' look right now?" 

Kylie had thrown her wadded up Kleenex at Amy, who'd dodged and laughed. 

They'd gotten to the bar just before midnight, already buzzed. The bouncer had let them in without much notice, and they'd pressed through the crush to the dancefloor, the noise overwhelming and invigorating. They'd danced and let cute hipster guys buy them drinks and do shots with them before dragging them to dance as well. The pounding music and the rush of alcohol in her veins made Amy feel free in a way she had forgotten about. 

Eventually, Amy and Kylie stepped out of the bar, Amy to get some air and Kylie to smoke. They moved over to where the others, mostly men, were smoking in clusters of two and three. Kylie opened her hardshell clutch and pulled out a pack and a light, offering Amy both, who shook her head. Kylie lit up and blew out a long, smoky breath. 

Amy stretched her arms over her head. "I'm so glad you invited me out," she said honestly, words slightly slurred. She was just on the other side of drunk, feeling the alcohol a little too much but still clear-headed enough to communicate. 

Kylie grinned, cigarette poised in one hand. "Of course, babe." She shrugged and tapped off the ash. "You're the one who's been going through a breakup. You've been dealing with a lot." She took a long drag. "This mean you're gonna get with Jake now?"

Amy gaped. "Wait, hold--" 

Kylie rolled her eyes, shrugging in her backless dress. "C'mon, Amy." 

They looked at each other for a long moment, suddenly tense, and Amy wished she were more sober. 

"What are you saying?" 

Kylie took another long drag and let it out slowly. "Why you?" 

"What?"

"Why is it you that he texts?" She ground the cigarette under her shoe. "It's always you, right? There's at least four other people he could call, but it's always you. Why?" 

"I'm his partner," she replied, but the words were uncertain and the ground felt unsteady. 

"I thought Boyle was your partner right now." Kylie pulled out gum and offered Amy a stick before taking one herself. "Maybe you need to set the record straight." 

Amy shifted from foot to foot. "Now?" 

"No time like the present." Kylie smiled brightly. 

Amy groaned. "Maybe I do need that cigarette."

"Too late!" Kylie strode to the curb and hailed a green cab. "Get in, loser, you're going to talk to Jake."

"Kylie, it's like two in the morning." Even to herself, Amy sounded whiny. “Also you don’t get to quote _Mean Girls_ at me in order to get me to do stuff.”

"Nothing good happens at bars after 2 AM anyway," Kylie said smartly, leaning slightly on the open cab door. 

Impulsively, Amy hugged Kylie. "You're a good friend, you know that?"

"The best, now go get some answers, and maybe some of that Sephardic D."

"Kylie!" But Amy was laughing and pulled the door shut. She blew Kylie a kiss and gave the driver Jake's address. 

By the time she got to Jake's place, she was tipsy but not drunk, and the joy Kylie had imbued had faded away, leaving a strange clarity. She paid the cabbie and climbed up the steps to the front door. She was about to press the buzzer when someone came out, and she caught the door as they passed through, taking the stairs up the well-worn path to Jake's door, somehow managing to not trip in Kylie's shoes. 

She stood in front of his door, and she could hear the television going, the sound of an explosion muffled through the wall. She raised her hand and knocked, using her police knock, and the sound inside cut off abruptly. She heard the sofa creak, and she called, "Jake, it's me." 

The heavy thud of footfalls sounded, approaching the door. Her heart started to race. She heard the locks turn and then the door opened. Jake stood there, in a navy henley with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows and red plaid boxers, feet bare and hair sticking up. "Amy? What’s going on?" 

She stepped into his place without him inviting her in, and he let the door close, leaning against it as he watched her. She tossed her clutch onto his tiny dining table and paced back and forth for a moment before squaring her shoulders and looking at him. "Why did you text me that night?" 

He paused. "I text you a lot. I text a lot of people." 

She shook her head. "I brought _The Fifth Element_ but never asked. I'm asking now. Why did you text me?" She swallowed. "Was it because Charles couldn't make it?" 

"No!" He said sharply, pushing off the door. "I didn't text anyone else," he added, muttering. 

"Then why me?" 

"You're my partner," he said, and there was something raw there, something he wasn't telling her. "You're my _partner_ , okay? Even if--" He cut himself off and ran a hand through his hair. "Amy, it's like two thirty, maybe you should--" 

"Charles is your best friend," she pointed out, taking a step forward. The alcohol made her bold. "You've known Gina since you were kids. Why _me_?" She swallowed her nerves. "I'm here all the time. They aren't. Why?" 

He laughed, a humorless sound, and fidgeted. "Did they tell you guys what happened when I was undercover?"

She hadn't expected that. "What does that--?"

"I died," he burst out, and suddenly he looked vulnerable, even more than he had in the parking lot before he'd gone. "My heart stopped while Leo was trying to get me to admit I'd been working for the feds." He pressed a hand to his chest, the other one clenching into a fist by his hip. "They started it again, obviously, but, like. I _died_ , okay?" He swallowed so hard she heard it from five feet away, saw his jaw clench, saw his chest rise as he took a deep breath. "Sometimes I feel so angry, like I'm going to spontaneously combust or something. Other days it feels like I’m going to fall through the floor, like I barely exist. Like I'm a ghost." He took a step towards her, then another. “But around you, those feelings go away for a while." He took a shaky breath. " _That's_ why I messaged you." 

Stunned, she stared at him. 

After a tense moment, he blew out a long breath. "You should go," he said, voice low. 

She took a step towards him, heels clacking on the tile. And another. She reached out and pulled him towards her, into a kiss. 

He was stiff for a long moment, and Amy was about to pull back and apologize when his arms came around her waist and his mouth opened and the kiss turned frenetic. She felt them move, felt his hands tug at her clothes, felt her axis shift, and suddenly she was sprawled out on his sofa, the same one on which she'd spent weeks and weeks sitting with him, dress in a crumpled heap by the dining table, and she was pulling Jake's shirt off of him. He felt hot enough to burn and she kissed him again, openmouthed and wet, tongue pressing against his. One of her feet was braced against the ground, the other bent at the knee. Her shoe was caught between sofa cushions. 

She felt him blindly reach and pull the stiletto heel off, tossing it behind him, other hand running up her leg. He was on his knees, one arm braced on the arm of the sofa above her head, and she felt a rush of lust run through her, making her lightheaded. He pushed his ring and middle fingers inside of her, and she gasped into his mouth. He made a low, satisfied noise when he found her wet and aching already, and she felt her hips tilt up into his hand. He stretched her, thumb circling the base of her clit, and she broke the kiss and groaned, arching her back and digging her nails into the muscles of his shoulder blades, leaving half-moon marks on his skin. She heard him say her name in a voice she barely recognized, and she sighed, "Yes." 

He pressed his mouth against her neck, tonguing her pulsepoint and nipping at her skin even as his fingers kept working. Suddenly, he thrust and curled his fingers into her while sucking hard on her neck, and Amy felt like she was going to explode, that wave starting to build inside of her. She tugged at his hair, bringing his mouth back to hers for a sloppy kiss, and blindly reached down between them, under the waistband of his boxers, to stroke him to full hardness. He was hot and hard and exactly what she wanted. 

She rolled her hips forward and he tugged her panties down in rough strokes. She did the same with his boxers, until she could guide the head of his cock to her entrance. Then, in one long thrust, he was inside of her, and she broke the kiss to say his name and bite her lip, their foreheads touching and their mingled breathing loud in the silence. He pulled back and pushed her hair out of her face, and she slowly let her bottom lip go, watching the way he watched her mouth. She shifted, and his hips thrust reflexively, a startled laugh coming out of him that made her grin in response. 

His arm was still braced on the arm of the sofa and he used it for leverage, fucking her hard and deep, no gentleness. She felt that wave starting to build again, almost cresting. She tipped her head back, exposing the long column of her throat, and made a pleasured sound. 

Suddenly, she felt him pull out and away, and the entire sensation of him was gone. She shivered and sat up, disoriented. "Jake?" 

He stood five feet away from her, still half-hard, looking pale and wide-eyed. He had pulled up his boxers, his hair was in disarray from her efforts, and his mouth was smeared with her lipstick. She stood, pulling her panties up and kicking off her other shoe. She took a few steps towards him. He backed away and she froze. "Jake, what's--?" 

"I can't," he bit out, and cut himself off with a shake of his head. "This isn't what I want," he started again, gesturing between them. 

Amy felt her stomach drop. "You don't mean that," she tried, feeling her knees shake. 

He wasn't listening. "You deserve someone better," he said hoarsely, running a hand through his hair and mussing it further. "Someone who isn't damaged." 

"No, stop, don't say that," she tried again, and hated the pleading note in her voice, hated everything about where this had gone. _Nothing good happens after 2 AM,_ she thought bitterly. 

He shook his head, rejecting her words, and covered his face with his hands. "You should leave," he said, voice muffled. 

"What?" 

"I didn't want this to…" He swallowed, trailing off. He dropped his hands and leveled an inscrutable stare at her. "I need you to leave." 

Anger flared in her chest, and she clung to it. "Fuck you, Jake," she said, bending down and pulling on her dress in rough tugs, zipping it up with shaking hands. She threw his henley at him and missed by a yard. He still flinched. "You don't get to tell me what I want." She grabbed Kylie's shoes and the clutch she'd tossed on his dining table and strode out, the door slamming shut behind her. She made it down one flight of stairs barefoot before her adrenaline gave out, and she sat on the landing, shaking with anger and embarrassment and raw nerves. She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes and took deep breaths until she felt less like she was going to vibrate out of her skin. 

_Shit_ , she thought, loud enough to fill every corner of her mind.

* * *

When she woke up, she was back in her apartment, sprawled out on her covers wearing panties and nothing else. She groaned and ran a hand over her brow, not rubbing her eyes because she’d forgotten to take out her contacts the night before. It was nearly lunch, and the sun was bright and taunting in her apartment. 

Mind a blank buzz, she stared at the ceiling of her apartment and breathed, rising to wakefulness in spite of the migraine she could already feel settling in. Her apartment was warm, the heat at full blast, and the air was dry. She took a deep breath and slid her hand into her underwear, fingers slipping between her wet folds and finding herself sore and stretched and aching still. 

She pulled her hand away and sat up, pushing herself to her feet. She sleepily padded into the bathroom, washing her hands and taking out her contacts before falling into the familiar rhythm of her usual morning routine.

She was pat-drying her face and neck with a washcloth when she felt it: a twinge. She turned, finally looking at herself in the mirror, and saw it, red and oval-shaped on her neck, impossible to miss. She felt her blood rush, hot and dizzying, as she remembered the moment he’d sucked hard enough to mark. Her fingers curled around the edges of her vanity and she willed the sensation to pass. 

When she felt more steady, she turned on the shower and popped two aspirin before stepping into the enclosure. She ignored the needlepoints of pain as the spray hit that spot.

* * *

On Monday, she and Boyle had back-to-back calls and collars, meaning she missed the morning roundup as well as most of the morning in the office. Boyle, to his credit, suggested they grab _bánh mì_ on the way back to the precinct, and Amy had silently thanked her good fortune that he hadn’t suggested something less palatable. 

Amy had kept her hair down for most of the morning, and she had carefully applied concealer before work, hoping her collar wouldn't rub it all off. However, once seated at her desk, she’d tied back her hair to keep it from getting in the way. She felt the weight of Jake’s gaze on her, on and off, all afternoon. She didn't look back. 

She was processing the paperwork for the most recent arrest (and pointedly trying to look like she wasn’t actively avoiding Jake) when Gina walked up to her to ask about some notation she’d made on a form. Without thinking, Amy had turned her head to respond to Gina, shoulders still in line with the desk, and heard Jake’s sharp intake of breath even over her own explanation. She knew the bruise had faded slightly, from a dark red to a lighter tone, but it was still obvious against her complexion. 

She steeled herself to convincingly state it was a curling iron burn, but Gina hadn’t even blinked. She had simply nodded at Amy's reply and made a note on a sticky note flag. Gina had then gone over to Boyle, ostensibly to ask another question, but more likely to harass him and/or convince him to sneak off with her. (Amy refused to contemplate their relationship.)

Amy had returned to her paperwork, forcing herself to focus on checking and annotating the correct boxes all the way through to the end. She slipped it into a labeled file folder and moved it to the basket on the edge of her desk. Then, and only then, did she risk a glance at Jake. 

His mouth was pressed into a line, but that brightness in his eyes, was unmistakable. Amy felt like she was suffocating under the heat of his gaze, skin prickling and heart pounding. 

"Peralta!" The captain's voice snapped. Jake blinked, and that inferno was gone, replaced with confusion and then quickly dread as he scrambled to his feet and headed into Holt’s office, the door closing behind him. 

Amy slowly let out a breath she hasn't realized she had been holding. She clicked through emails until the room no longer felt too warm, then went to the bathroom to reapply her concealer. 

**iv.**

Charles asked the obvious question. "What happened to your other Rubik's cube?"

Jake looked up from his monitor. "It broke," he said shortly, hands poised over his keyboard. 

Boyle looked pained. "How?" 

"I twisted it too hard." He smiled, closemouthed and with a sarcastic edge. "Guess I don't know my own strength."

* * *

They weren't speaking. 

Amy pretended not to hear the others whispering about it, but she heard. The entire damn precinct heard. It seemed her and Jake's... _disagreement_ was the week's precinct gossip fodder. 

She opted to ignore it and focus on her work instead. Jake and the Sarge were still paired up, so she and Boyle continued working together. Boyle hadn't bothered asking any questions; instead, he had backed off and let her ride out her hot streak, pulling LUDs and putting out BOLOs for her at her request. She was on fire, though, and the captain had noticed.

"You've been having a good run," he said, calling her into his office. Amy had fidgeted while standing before Holt's desk, nervous and on edge from too much coffee that morning. 

"Thank you, sir," she said, nodding sharply.

"I'm concerned, however," he continued, scrutinizing her over the rim of his glasses. Amy resisted the urge to shift her weight from foot to foot. "You and Peralta seem to be--"

"We're fine, sir," she said sharply, cutting him off. Holt raised an eyebrow, and Amy steamrolled onward, figuring she was already in rough territory. "We had a disagreement, it'll blow over." She forced herself to shrug casually, and could tell from Holt's continued stoicism that he wasn't buying it. Giving up, she allowed her shoulders to drop slightly. "May I be dismissed, sir?" 

Holt nodded, expression turning slightly intrigued, and Amy left the office before he could ask further questions. She slid into her desk, avoiding Gina's eyes, and clicked through the files on her computer, hoping to pull up some old cold case of hers that could stand another look. 

"Hey." She looked up at Rosa, who was standing next to Amy's desk, hands on her hips. "I got a call. Sarge said it was cool if I brought you with me." 

She glanced over at Boyle's desk. "He's in court?"

"Yup." 

"Okay," she said, and stood, grabbing her coat. "Where is it?" 

"On Third," she said shortly. "Come on." 

Twenty minutes later, they were seated at a table in Argos Bakery, Rosa drinking coffee and the waitress placing a slice of apple pie that was steaming slightly in front of Amy. 

"Why are we here?" Amy looked around at the bakery, the red-and-white checkered tablecloths in contrast with the blue and white curtains. It was quaint and old-fashioned in a comforting way. On the walls were framed news clippings touting their apple pie as the best in Brooklyn. 

"Shut up and eat your pie," Rosa said, sipping from her mug. 

Amy frowned slightly but did as commanded. The first bite was like heaven. "What is this?" 

"The best pie," Rosa said flatly. She paused, pursing her lips slightly. "Why are you and Peralta fighting?" 

Amy froze mid-bite and set down her fork with visible effort. She chewed and swallowed, tongue thick in her mouth. "I don't want to talk about it." 

The other woman ignored her statement. "What'd he do?" Rosa frowned, her brows drawing together. "Do I need to hurt him?" Her hand on the table clenched into a fist.

"No!" Amy burst out. "No," she repeated, more sedately. "He didn't do anything. It was my fault. I--" she swallowed, mouth dry. "I assumed some stuff. I was wrong." 

The fist on the table relaxed. "Maybe. Maybe not." Rosa took a long drink of her coffee, running a finger along the rim. Amy wondered if maybe Rosa was nervous about broaching this subject, too. "He's been getting worse." 

Amy nodded, picking up her fork and pulling out one apple slice from the half-eaten piece of pie on her plate. "I know." She sighed, spearing the chunk of fruit. "I can't think about that right now." 

"I get that." Rosa nodded decisively. "Let's eat in silence."

Amy nodded, eating her piece of pie slowly, savoring the flavors until there were only flakes of crust left on the plate.

* * *

Jake's dark circles were back, more pronounced than before. It had been two and a half weeks, and Amy's numbers had never been better. Jake chose desk work, running algorithms and cross-referencing phone numbers with bank statements in order to help the Sarge track down an insurance fraud scam. 

The toys were slowly disappearing from his desk again. His brightly colored pens were in a drawer, and his desk was somehow tidier than it had ever been. All of his cases were filed in neat stacks. Amy tried very hard not to notice these things, just like she had tried not to notice the argument Jake and the Sarge had gotten into in one of the interrogation rooms.

Gina had called Jake away asking for his help with something, probably Holt-related if Amy knew anything, and she found herself staring at his desk, cataloging the changes. 

Rosa walked up to her desk. "Follow me," she said abruptly. Amy didn't even blink, just stood and fell into step behind Rosa. They went downstairs, into the basement. Rosa stepped around a file cabinet and gestured for Amy to open a mysterious door. There were muffled noises coming from behind it. Shooting Rosa a suspicious look, Amy complied.

It was a single-occupancy bathroom scented like lavender, with fresh flowers and monogrammed hand towels. Gina and Jake stopped talking to look at her. Gina beamed and darted past Amy. 

"You two need to talk," she said flatly, pointing at the two of them. Then, before either of them could react, she pulled the door closed. There was the sound of metal groaning. Belatedly, Amy dashed to the door and gave it a rough tug. It didn't budge.

"What the hell, Gina!" She shouted through the door, pounding on it. "This is a fire hazard." 

"And you two fighting is a fire...fighting...hazard...guns." Gina clucked her tongue.

"Nope," Rosa said. Amy practically _saw_ the rejection in Rosa's voice. 

"Let us out," Jake demanded, and Amy felt her heart leap into her throat. 

"You two need to work out your whatever first," Gina said firmly. 

"We're not letting you out until you talk it out," added Boyle.

"Et tu, Boyle?" Amy frowned, folding her arms over her chest.

"Sorry," he added. Amy heard someone smack Boyle even through the door. 

"Stop talking to us and talk to each other instead," Rosa called, tone brokering no argument. 

Amy sighed and turned around, leaning against the door. "Our coworkers are the worst," she muttered, rubbing the back of her neck. 

"They're worried," he said, and his tone was lighter than she expected. She bit the inside of her cheek and looked at him directly, meeting his level gaze for the first time in days. As she took in his appearance, her traitorous body flared to life, remembering the hot, wet press of his mouth and the feeling of him over and inside of her. She closed her eyes and swallowed, hoping her face didn't betray her thoughts. 

She hoped in vain: his expression had shifted, eyes hot and burning. She shook her head and pushed away from the door. "No. You don't get to--to look at me like that. You said no. _You_ said no." 

"I know," he said, and his expression changed. He looked as lost as she felt. 

She sighed. "Look, I was drunk. I said and did some things I probably shouldn't have. It's fine." She shifted her weight and waved a hand dismissively. "We’re both adults, right? It happened, and it didn't quite go the way we expected. I shouldn't have assumed--" 

"Stop apologizing." He grabbed her hand out of the air, thumb in the crease of her palm and fingers curled across the back. "You didn't do anything wrong," he added, his voice dark and angry. 

Amy glared back. "You told me to leave. You said, 'I need you to leave' and you shut down." She swallowed again, more visibly. 

There was a long silence, the buzzing of the fluorescent lights the only sound.

"I was about to have a panic attack." He dropped her hand and stuffed his clenched fists in his pockets. "That's why you had to go, okay? It wasn't about you." He blew out a frustrated breath. "I've been trying to tell you that for two weeks." 

Her stomach hit the floor. "I don't understand," she said, and her voice sounded distant to her own ears. 

"There's...a lot that happened while I was on assignment." His mouth twisted. "And I'm not ready to talk about it. Most of it. But, like." He shifted, jacket squeaking. "I never wanted you to think it was me saying no to _you_." 

"What else was I supposed to think?" The statement came out harsh. "You kick me out after we--" She cut herself off, too aware of listening ears on the other side of the door. "And you don't explain, you don't try to reach out, you just look at me like--like--" She gestured vaguely at him. "You think that's enough?" 

"It has to be!" He burst out. "I don't have more than that to give right now." He swiped a hand through his hair. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm a mess." Sarcasm colored his tone, making it bitter at the end.

"What the hell happened to you?" It was the most direct question she'd asked him about those six months. She wrung her hands.

He scuffed his foot on the tile, his Superstars making a shuffling sound. "If you ask me, I won't lie to you. But I need you not to ask." He blew out a breath. "I'm sorry," he said, and she knew it was more than just an apology.

"It's a start," she warned him. "We're not--"

"I know," he said, cutting her off. "Yeah, I know. I'll do better next time." 

They were silent for a long moment. Amy felt the vise around her ribs finally loosen, and she let out a long breath. "Okay." 

"Are you two idiots hugging yet?" Rosa intoned, amusement clear in her voice despite the barriers. 

"Is Boyle crying yet?" Jake called back. His stance shifted, and he looked more relaxed. 

"No," came Boyle's voice, clearly choked up. 

"Yes," Gina and Rosa chimed. 

"We're coming in, and you two had better be hugging," Gina added. There was the sound of heavy things shifting. 

Amy turned to Jake, who shrugged loosely and held out his arms. "Hugs?" he said, using his Sexy Voice. 

She laughed in spite of herself, the brittle sound echoing off the tile, and stepped into the embrace, wrapping her arms around his back and tucking her chin over his shoulder. Behind her, the door opened, and Boyle and Gina joined them, turning into a group embrace. Rosa patted Amy and Jake on the shoulder, in turn, and Gina offered to lock them in bathrooms more often. 

"What is this place, anyway?" Jake asked once they'd all disentangled themselves from each other. 

"Babylon," the other three chorused. 

"Oh-kay," Jake replied, looking askance at them. 

"You three need to stop doing that," Amy added.

* * *

Two days later, Jake showed up at her place holding up a DVD of _Beverly Hills Cop_ and looking both terrified and expectant. 

"All I have is red wine and pasta," she said flatly, letting him in without missing a beat. "And I'm not ordering takeout for us." 

"I don't trust you cooking pasta," he said dryly. "Not after you mixed up salt and baking soda last year. Seriously, what is wrong with you?" 

She groaned and leaned against the counter of the pass-through, hands clasped and elbows braced on the flat surface. "I'm never living that down, am I?" 

"Nope." he replied cheerily, rummaging through her cabinets. 

"It's not even fair you can cook. Or bake, at least. Charles _still_ nags me for the name of the 'bakery'--" she over-exaggerated the air quotes -- "Where I bought those muffins." 

"Good to know my secret's safe with you." 

"I can't wait until we're partnered up again." She watched him for a long moment as he pulled out spices and a box of pasta, olive oil, flour, milk, butter, and her carton of eggs. She waited until he had everything on the counter before she asked. "You died, huh?" 

He went still. “Yeah.” He came over and stood on the other side of the counter, fingers wrapped around the edge. “The, um, the last thing I remember is losing consciousness. The feds told me my heart had stopped. Leo -- uh, Leo Ianucci, the heir apparent? I was part of his crew.” His voice had changed, growing flat and distant, the way it did when he went over the details of a particularly grisly crime scene. "Leo had Mikey follow me around, and they caught me meeting my handlers." Jake smiled humorlessly, and Amy resisted the urge to shudder, keeping her gaze steadily on him. “He had me tied up in a warehouse in Red Hook, then used a modified taser on me when I refused to admit I worked for the feds." Jake tapped his fingers on the butcher block counter top, a nail tracing the wood grain. "The last setting he used overloaded my nervous system and stopped my heart." He paused, swallowing. "Apparently I was gone for about seven minutes.” 

She nodded. “But you’re here now.” 

“Alive and very attractive.” He grinned, and the flatness left his voice, the brightness returning to his eyes. 

“Maybe if you cut your hair,” she retorted. 

“Nuh-uh, you _like_ it,” he teased. 

Amy rested her chin in her palm and tilted her head slightly. "It's growing on me." 

"Rather literally on me." 

"Shed in dinner and I will murder you." She pointed at him. "I'm the best detective in the Nine-Nine, I could get away with it too."

"You _were_ the best detective," he retorted, leaning forward. "But I got unfired, remember?" 

"The numbers don't lie, Peral--" He cut her off with a kiss, the counter of the pass-through awkwardly between them. She pulled back and sucked in a breath, dizzy. "Whoa." 

He took a couple of steps back and smiled, wide and bright and tinged with nerves. His neck was red. "I'm not asking you to wait," he said, voice low and serious. It made her shiver even in her over-warm apartment. "I just...need you to be patient." 

"I can be patient," she replied, once she'd caught her breath. "I'm a very patient person." 

"Patient enough to watch _Die Hard_ with me?"

"No one is _that_ patient." 

**v.**

In mid-January, a tall, clean-cut man showed up and strode into Holt's office before Gina could properly check him out. They closed the door and were speaking in hushed tones. Holt had also marked his phone as "Do Not Disturb," so Gina couldn't even listen in.

"Hey, Santiago, read their lips and tell us what they're saying," Gina whisper-shouted to Amy. Amy was frowning and glaring at Gina when Holt stood and snapped the blinds shut. 

"Nice going," Rosa called sarcastically, feet propped on the chair perps usually occupied. 

Gina shrugged.

"He's from the US Attorney's Office," Jake said, leaning back in his chair. The entire room turned to look at him. He toyed with Amy's rubberband ball, tossing it from hand to hand. "He's co-counsel on the Ianucci case." He caught it and set it on his desk, flicking the bobble head toy beside it. His desk was approaching its former cluttered state. Fortunately, however, it was far less likely to be housing a mouse. Probably. 

It was, surprisingly, Boyle who responded. Charles rotated in his chair and glanced at the door, gaze fixed on Jake. "It's time already?" 

"Yup." Jake stood and fussed with the fan chain and his detective's shield, centering it over his tie. "RICO cases usually get wrapped up pretty quick. I wonder which one turned on Leo." Jake rocked back on his heels. "Lucca maybe. Or Mikey." 

It was the most casually Jake had spoken of his time undercover -- possibly the only time he'd spoken of it in the precinct. Amy suspected Sarge knew more than he was telling, and his proud expression was telling in and of itself. Amy shot Terry a look, who simply shrugged back at her. 

"Lucca Posteraro and Mikey Gallo are in custody, but they didn't turn state's witness," a new voice broke in. The suited man from earlier stepped out of Holt's office, the captain just behind him. "You must be Jake Peralta."

"In the flesh. You're from the US Attorney's office, right? I recognize you from the, uh." He trailed off, waving a hand in the air vaguely. 

"The thing at the place?" The attorney's expression turned wryly amused. "The grand jury proceeding, yes. I'm Mike Kaplan." He turned to Captain Holt. "Is there somewhere he and I could speak privately?" 

"Sergeant Jeffords, is one of the interview rooms open?"

"Room three, sir," Terry replied, standing. Around him, the others continued to at least pretend to work, even if they were watching the proceedings through their lashes. Maybe that was just Amy. 

"Would that suffice?" 

Kaplan nodded and changed which hand was holding his briefcase. "Lead the way." 

"Actually, Sergeant Jeffords will be escorting you. I'd like to speak with my detective a moment." 

The attorney touched his glasses. "Yes, I understand." He pivoted smoothly to face Terry. "After you, Sergeant." 

When Terry and the other man were out of earshot, Holt turned to Jake, who reflexively smoothed down his tie. "Have you retained your own counsel, Detective?" 

Jake looked startled for a moment before recovering. "Yeah. The policemen's union provided me one when I was reinstated." He grinned. "Makes all those dues I paid worth it." 

Holt looked at Jake steadily for a long moment. Jake's expression smoothed out, and Amy realized she was seeing a very specific version of Jake that she wasn't sure she'd ever be able to access, partners or whatever else they became. 

"I'll call him," Jake said at last.

Holt dipped his chin slightly. "Good."

* * *

At roll call the next day, Terry ended with an announcement. "Next week, Peralta will not be in rotation. He'll be otherwise occupied finishing up another case." 

"Ianucci case went to trial," Rosa stated, feet propped up on the table. "Saw it on the news." 

"Who's Ianucci?" Scully looked around, confused. Hitchcock, if it were possible, looked even more lost.

"You have got to be kidding me." Terry shot them a flat look from behind the podium. "The Ianucci family? One of the most powerful mob families in Brooklyn? The reason Jake was gone for six months last summer?" 

"He was undercover? I thought he'd just gone into a coma, like I did." Scully shrugged.

The Sarge looked ready to cry. "Dismissed."

Boyle fell into the seat next to Amy's desk once they had filed out. Gina stood behind him. Rosa sauntered up and filled out the half-circle, blocking Amy from the rest of the room. "How is he?" Boyle asked, expression expectant. 

"I--how would I know?" Amy worked to tamp down the blush she felt creeping up her neck. 

"You're his partner," Rosa said flatly.

"Also you're always hanging out together," Gina said, tilted her head slightly. 

Amy sputtered.

Gina grinned. "Oh don't worry, I've been busy with this idiot here, and my other four boyfriends--"

"Four?! You said there were two!" Boyle was beet red and clearly taken by surprise. Amy shuddered and Rosa rolled her eyes. 

"You know him best right now," Rosa cut in sharply. "How's he doing?" 

Amy looked at her keyboard without seeing it and let out a long breath. "I--"

"He's doing fine. He's going to be fine." The four of them swiveled their heads to look at Sarge, who was standing arms akimbo behind Jake's chair, across from Amy. "Trust me," he said firmly, and looked each of them in the eye until they nodded back. 

"We should have a party when he's done," Boyle suggested.

"I'm not planning it," Gina and Rosa said flatly.

"And she shouldn't either," Gina added, pointing at Amy. 

"Hey!" 

"Remember that time you got us kicked out of a bar because you _destroyed it_?" Gina raised her eyebrows.

"That was _one time_ and--"

"Less talking, more acceptance of your lot in life." 

Boyle stood and folded his arms. " _Four_ other boyfriends?"

"Ugh," Rosa muttered, and dragged Boyle bodily back to his desk.

* * *

Jake had been testifying (and sequestered, at the FBI's behest) for four days, in three-hour blocks of time, detailing the various criminal activity he had observed and, in some cases, participated in. Amy knew that part because she had looked up transcripts of old RICO cases from the 90s. After the US Attorney's Office had finished, he had to endure a cross-examination, clarifying and stating for the record what Leo was capable of, while Leo watched from behind the defendant's desk. 

Amy felt stressed just thinking about it. 

She grinded on some of her colder cases, rifling through LUDs and auto deeds and Carfax reports until her dreams had turned into columns scrolling at different speeds while she desperately hunted for a match. She had woken, feeling frustrated, and stared at her ceiling until her alarm had gone off. 

The others were trying to hide their concern and failing about as much as Amy was. Charles had ordered a watercress salad for lunch every day. Gina hadn't complained when Hitchcock's tupperware caused her to chip her manicure. Rosa even wore a bright color -- okay, bottle green wasn't _bright_ , but it was more stated than her usual array of dark blouses. 

Even the Captain had been on edge. He nearly emoted, which scared a patrolman so badly that Rosa and her apparent protégé took the guy to Prospect Park for a walk to calm down. 

After lunch on Friday, Jake came into the precinct, duffel bag slung over one shoulder and hair shorn short, styled into a fauxhawk. 

Gina had pinched his cheeks and cooed over the haircut, ruffling his short hair and ruining the peaked style. "You start relaxing it again?" she asked bluntly, swirling her index finger at his temple. 

"You swore we'd never talk about that." He brushed her hand away and mock-glared.

"Now we need to know everything," Rosa cut in, biting back a grin. 

Jake and Gina had shrugged. "It's kind of a long story," he said. 

"I'll tell it at the bar," Gina stage-whispered. "I still have the photos." 

"You're the worst." He hugged Gina, spinning her around before dropping her back on her feet. She'd beamed, her eyes extra-bright. 

Rosa had slugged him in the shoulder. "Glad you cut your hair. You were starting to look like John McEnroe." 

"You watch tennis?" Jake tilted his head and frowned, attempting to process this.

Rosa shrugged. "The girls are thick." 

"Legit." 

Charles was next, a sobbing mess, and proceeded to weep loudly into Jake's shirt, much to Jake's clear chagrin. Terry was after Charles, and handed Jake a kerchief -- "Who carries around handkerchiefs anymore? What is this, the 1880s?" -- and a Tide pen, the latter of which Jake accepted gratefully. 

Holt patted Jake on the shoulder and said, "You did us proud," and Jake's expression was somewhere between stunned and something else that Amy didn't want to identify. The others broke away, discussing what the after-work plans should be. 

Jake slid the duffel off his shoulder and kicked it under his desk. Almost all of the toys were back now, though some were in different places than they used to be. The chattering teeth clacked when he bumped into his desk. "If I never have to go to court again--"

"You're testifying in two cases on Monday," Amy said flatly, but the corners of her mouth quirked up. 

He shot her a look. "Can't a guy get a break?" The lines around his eyes made it clear he was teasing. 

She shrugged, playing it cool. "Look alive, Peralta." She opened her top drawer and pulled out the little figure of a police man she'd stolen off his desk before he had gone. He looked startled. "Welcome back," she added, reaching out and handing it back to him.

He took it, running a finger over the figure's molded plastic hat and shoes before placing it at the base of his monitor.

* * *

"You wanted to see me, sir?" 

Holt looked up from the file he was scanning. "Yes." He gestured for Santiago to be seated, and pulled off his glasses. "I see you've once again filed a request to be partnered with Peralta." 

She folded her hands in her lap. "Yes, sir." She paused, choosing the right words. "You told me last time that you felt that Peralta didn't have his best to give. I think that's changed." 

Holt looked past her, through the window to where Jake was tossing a miniature basketball to Rosa and telling some story, half of it made up, and acting out all the parts. Amy would have been willing to bet Jake was doing voices for each person, too. The lines around his eyes and mouth were less pronounced, and she could almost hear him laugh at whatever someone in the kitchen had called out. 

"I'd say you were right, Detective." Amy turned back to Captain Holt, who was looking at her speculatively. 

"He's my partner," she said, answering the question Holt hadn't asked. They had a bond, after all. "We bring out the best in each other." 

**\+ vi.**

They were on stakeout when the storm had rolled in. At first the rain had been gentle, the occasional _ping_ on the body of the car. Now, a few hours later, the water cascaded down the windshield, their visibility completely obscured. The sound against the roof and body of their borrowed Crown Vic was soothing. In the passenger seat, Amy was finishing their notes on the stakeout. 

"You think anyone's ever gotten lucky in one of these before?"

"Gross," Amy replied, continuing to work through the paperwork. Jake wasn't even sure how she could see in the distorted lamp light. 

"Probably a lot," Jake continued, more to mess with her than any real stake in the thought. "The Crown Vic's a real chick magnet, or so I'm told." 

He heard her sigh and he bit back a grin. "I know what you're doing," she said, raising an eyebrow at him. She capped her pen and shut the file folder, tossing both into the backseat. 

"You wanna do it on the paperwork? That's kinky." He waggled his eyebrows at her.

She shuddered. "Ugh, no. I had to listen to Gina offer advice from her and Boyle's experiences. Some things cannot be unseen, even if they were just imagined." 

"Truth," Jake agreed. They shared a shudder before relaxing into a comfortable silence. On the radio, Jefferson Airplane segued into Boston. 

Amy blew out a breath and sank down into her seat. "Hey, Jake?"

"Yes, Amy?" he parroted her tone back at her, fingers tracing the logo on the steering wheel. 

"You still seeing that therapist?" 

He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. "Yeah," he replied, and flattened his hands on the wheel, slotted his fingers into the grooves on the underside. 

"How often?" 

"Not as much as I used to," he replied honestly. 

"You sleeping?" 

"Yeah," he said, then figured he was in for a penny already. "Better if I'm with you." 

He caught her smile before she pushed it aside. "How about the drinking?"

"Not as much as I used to," he repeated. 

"It was that bad?" 

"Sarge helped with that one." He blew out a long breath and tapped arrythmically on the steering wheel. "Being angry all the time and being drunk don't go together well." 

She nodded. "Smoking?" 

"Not as much as I used to," he said, and fought to keep the amused note out of his voice and failed. He laughed outright at her expression.

She shoved him in the shoulder. "Be serious, Peralta." 

"I am!" he managed around chuckles. At her baleful look, he sobered. "I am, I am." He reached out and ran a thumb along the inside of her forearm. He felt her shiver, heard her sharp intake of breath. "It's not perfect, but I'm better. You know that." 

"It's hard to tell with you sometimes." He watched her swallow, swatched the way her eyes tracked the path his thumb drew along her skin. 

"I'm not as angry as I used to be." He dragged the pad of his thumb from inside her elbow to the inside of her wrist. "I feel solid most days."

"You're a real boy," she cut in, tone wry. The way her heart pounded -- he could feel it hammering against his fingers -- belied her. 

"Yes," he breathed. "I mean, I haven't stress-baked four dozen muffins in months." He laced his fingers with hers. 

"Two dozen muffins, two dozen cupcakes," she corrected. "And two loaves of banana bread." 

"Nana had a gift," he agreed, false drama causing him to press their twined against against his chest. He felt his heart beating and knew she could feel it too. 

"Jake Peralta seems to do all right," she pointed out. 

"Yeah? You think so?" 

Even in the low light, her eyes were bright, hot and burning and arresting. "Yeah," she said, and moved to straddle him in the driver's seat, leg lifting over the center console. "I like you just the way you are." 

He grinned at her even as his fingers tugged at her blouse until he'd gotten it untucked. He slid his hands up her sides, enjoying the way she inhaled sharply. She smelled like coffee. "You know what'll happen if a patrolman finds us, right?" 

"Stop talking," she commanded and reached for the seat tilt lever.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> A "black eye" coffee is one with two shots of espresso along with the rest of the "regular" drip coffee. It'll wake you up or kill you, basically. Also, that "Nutella coffee" trick totally works. Every barista I've done it with is so charmed. 
> 
> Once again, shoutouts to **YankeesGirl28** and **40millionyears** for doing treatments of similar subject matter. 
> 
> There's one more story in this little pocket universe. (Maybe two, if I can find the piece that would make it tick.)
> 
> Have you all noticed that the series and story titles are quotes from _Captain America: The Winter Soldier _?__


End file.
